Watching Over
by HRFan
Summary: Another take on a possible 9.1....Thanks so much for all your comments on the other fics! Those comments make it all worthwhile.... This fic is for TheChronicallyAccountlessOne. :-


5

**Watching over**

**Hi guys…TheChronicallyAcountless was right, I think, to point out that there was something out of kilter with the pace in my Giving In fic. I was hoping to convey that sense that even for people like Harry and Ruth, who find it so difficult to open up and deal with their feelings, there comes of point where the dam just bursts open. But I don't think I quite succeeded. So here is another one, which is more faithful to the characters (at least I think so!)**** Would like to know what you think, if you have the time to drop a review…**

**1.**

He leans back against the leather headrest of his chauffeured car, wearily, craving rest despite the three hours of sleep he managed to snatch at the hospital after Ros came out of theatre. His eyes are gritty with fatique, his voice for having to talk, plead, shout down the phone for the best part of the last 24 hours - since the explosion in fact. The Home Secretary dead, Lucas concussed, Ros needing 10 pints of blood to make it through….God knows he has had rocky nights in his career, but this one probably tops them all. Along the night after Adam's death. Or Jo's death, for that matter. Or Danny's. Not forgetting Fiona…All those ghosts…. Of all his closest colleagues from the last eight years, only Ruth remains.

Ruth….He sighs. Since he rushed to the hospital with Ros in the ambulance, she has been his lifeline to the Grid. They must have spoken on the phone every half hour or so since then, except during his nap. Quick, short, chats, to touch base, for him to issue instructions, for her to update him on what was happening at the Grid. Bottom line: they now have temporary field agents on loan from 6 (the object of a screaming row he had over the phone with the Chair of the JIC, under the disapproving gaze of the nurses); permission to bug anyone remotely linked to Nightingale and priority on Special Branch and CO19 time (another screaming row, with the Prime Minister this time, no less, but then again, who else is there to shout at when the Home Secretary is dead.); access to foreign intelligence services databases. He would happily have gone for another screaming row on this one, but Ruth suggested that she might try breaking into them first, by calling in a few favours owed by various mysterious quarters. If he had been less tired at that point he would have demanded that she desist, or at least inquire how she can still be owed favours given that she was off the map for three years, but frankly, he couldn't be bothered.

As the car approaches Thames House, navigating its way through the 5 pm rush hour traffic, he casts his mind back to their brief exchange on the roof, ages ago it seems. _Why couldn't I admit to her that I was crying?_, he wonders…_why is it so difficult for me to accept her friendship…._He stares through the car window, absently…

The car comes to an abrupt stop, jolting hin out of his reverie. He looks up at the building, his second home really – his first home in fact, so reassuringly familiar. He makes his way to the Grid quickly, keen to reclaim his territory, brief his newly reconstituted staff, and start the long, hard slog of putting the last pieces of Nightingale together.

The Grid is quiet. Instinctively, as ever, he checks Ruth's desk first: it's empty. He can't help feeling disappointed. He knows that she was right to go home and get some sleep, but God he would have loved seeing her now, being in her company, looking at her…He quashes the feeling. Tariq is working at his many computers. A few staff are doted around the place, collating data…

'Tariq…how are things?'

The younger man looks up, dark rings under his eyes. 'Fine. All the traces and bugs you asked for are set up. Those guys over there are processing them. How…how is Ros?', he asks shyly.

'She'll make it. As for you…You've done a brilliant job. You can go home. Be back tomorrow at 8 sharp. Where's Ruth?'

Tariq glances towards Harry's office. 'She's in there', he says concisely.

Harry raises his eyebrows. He makes his way to his sanctuary, quickly, pushes the door open, and stops dead in his tracks. She is asleep on his couch, wrapped in her coat, her hands tucked under her cheek, a loose strand of her hair making her look more vulnerable and fragile than she really is.

'I hope that's OK'…

Harry turns around quickly. Tariq is standing there, looking awkward. 'I told her she could probably get driven home but…' He clears his throat. 'She wouldn't have it. Said she only needed to lie down for 20mns or so…'

Harry squeezed Tariq's shoulder. 'Not to worry. Go home now. I'll see you in the morning.'

As Tariq leaves, he goes and gets a blanket from the supply room and puts it over her. switches off all the lights in his office except his desk lamp, and methodically starts going through files and paperwork, watching over her.

**2.**

An hour later, she still hasn't woken up. He gets up heavily and pours himself a shot of his favourite whisky, inwardly debating with himself.

_I should wake her up and send her home, he tells himself. And I should go home too…But I don't want t__o go home. I want to stay here, with her…Oh come on Harry. You're being quite the voyeur now aren't you…_

_No I'm not, this is my office after all, and I am making sure that she is OK, that she doesn't find the Grid empty and dark when she makes up…who knows when she will, and there might not be a car for her, or a taxi…And I can't let her get the late bus, can I….__I've made that mistake once but not tonight. Of all nights._

_Oh come on. Stop kidding yourself. The Grid is never empty, there's always at least two agents on duty, and look at her, she looks rested, and relaxed in her sleep so it'd be OK to wake her up now, and she…_

He turns away jerkily, ashamed of himself for watching her so openly when she is not aware of it. He grabs his jacket and goes up to the rooftop, needing to get away from her, wanting space, and fresh air, to get a grip on himself. He looses himself into the London skyline, but the scene of so many of their encounters at last forces him to face up to the strength of his love and his desire for her. He stays there for a long time, hands in his pockets, deep in thought.

He finally comes to a decision. A decision he should have made a long, long time ago.

**3. **

He walks back to his office. She's moved in her sleep, and the blanket and her coat have slipped, so that she is lying not quite flat on her back but almost, one arm stretched out, her hair fully loose now. Her chest rises and falls calmly. He can hear the faint sound of her breathing - and he can discern the lines of her body underneath her clothes.

He takes a deep breath, and sits behind his desk again, stubbornly going through his files. An hour passes…and another one. She barely stirs. He is getting increasingly tired, but he will not leave. He won't wake her up either. He will keep watching over her without watching her. And when she wakes up, he will….

**4. **

She becomes vaguely aware of the pain in her back, of how uncomfortable it is when she tries to turn over. She feels cold. Slowly, she emerges from her slumber, disoriented, unconsciously puzzled by something…the something is the silence, the lack of phones ringing, of people hurrying about…She opens her eyes.

The office is dark. The Grid too. But she is not alone…

He's sitting at his desk, his face lit up, almost carved by the lamp. He's taken off his jacket and tie, and undone the top buttons, and his sleeves. He's reading files, making notes, frowning. The light on his phone is blinking furiously, but he seems oblivious to it.

She glances at her watch surreptitiously, and struggles not to gasp in horror. It's 8pm, thereabouts, and she's been lying there for three hours…she can feel the blush rising up her collar. How can she explain this, her using his sofa that way? How can she tell him that she would not, under any circumstances, leave the Grid before he returned? That she needed to see him, talk to him – not touch him, since he showed no sign at all, all those hours ago, of even feeling her comforting touch on his arm – but, well, just see him?

And what does it mean, that he has been working here, next to her, God knows for how long, without waking her up? She can't help sighing. _Well, better face it sooner rather than latter…_

She sits up. He raises his head, and smiles at her. Not a beaming, happy smile. A tentative, cautious smile. 'Hi', he says softly.

She starts fidgeting, and curses herself for it. 'Hi. Harry…you should have woken me up, I'm so sorry, I…'

He gets up and walks around the desk to sit on the sofa, not too close to her, but not too far either. 'It's fine…you obviously needed the sleep. Don't worry about it. Please.'

She returns the smile, equally cautiously, equally tentatively. Suddenly she remembers, and her face darkens. 'Ros?' she asks urgently.

'She'll be fine. It'll take a few weeks for her to recover but…Lucas too.'

'Thank God.' She takes a deep breath. 'Thank God. If either of them had…' She can't finish her sentence. 'I'd better go and freshen up. There're probably tons of emails waiting and…'

'When was the last time you ate?', he cuts in softly.

'Ate?'

'Yes. You know. This activity normal people engage in about three times a day and…', he can't resist teasing her.

She smiles, 'OK. OK. You've made your point.' She pretends to think long and hard. 'Well. I seem to remember a tuna sandwich', she offers helpfully. 'A while ago. And you?', she neatly turns the tables on him.

'Oh, I have no recollection of anything remotely resembling food', he quips. 'So. Ruth. We're going to grab something to eat. And then I will get a car to drop you home. National security will wait until the morning.'

'But, Harry! We can't just…there's only two agents there! The data from Tariq's traces is just coming in and…'

'Ruth.' His tone is firm. Not sharp but commanding. 'Listen. I'm getting some food, and then some sleep, in my bed. And so are you.' He bites his lips, made aware of what exactly he has just said by the stunned look on her face. 'I meant, _you _are getting food, and _you _are sleeping in _your _bed. Not mine or….it's not that I don't….Christ.' He mumbles, furious with himself for mishandling, once again, such an important moment between them.

But she is smiling. Mischeviously. And there is something in her eyes, in her smile, which sends his heart soaring. 'You don't have to come and eat with me', he says softly, regaining his composure. 'But as your boss…I'm ordering you to eat and to get a decent night's sleep. In a proper bed. The next few days are going to be tough and I need you rested, focused, and…'

'I get your point', she reassures him, with the same smile playing on her lips.

'Good'. He gets up. And now, the hard part, the moment which he had planned since leaving the rooftop. He swallows. 'You don't have to eat with me', he repeats, his mouth dry, 'but I very much hope that you will.' He stretches his hand out to her, and wonders, dimly, whether she can see how shaky his fingers are.

She looks down at his hand. It's trembling slightly. She looks up. His eyes are dark pools of fear, uncertainty, desire and love. The Havensworth eyes….She can't take her own eyes off his lined, lived-in face . Slowly, she places her hand in his, and uses his strength to rouse up from the couch.

They're standing so close now that they can feel the other's breadth and smell their scent. She keeps her hand in his, clasping it, relishing how tightly he returns her grasp.

'I will'.

THE END.


End file.
